(no subject)
Last week I spent a week at my cabin in the Oregon mountains. The idea was to get away from the city and and from my work. Normally that means running down to the golf course(s) near and walking up and down the fairways attempting to strike an awfully small round ball.
The first morning began by my awakening to the sun's glancing blows off the 150 foot ponderosa pines that encircle my place. The sky is nearly always blue on the leeward side of the cascades and it was this morning as well. Out onto the deck I wandered with coffee cup in hand. Sitting down on the steps, I started to question why I would want to leave this property. Why slip on those funny shoes and why throw that golf bag onto my back like a modern day Robin Hood replacing quivers of arrows with strange steel shafted golf clubs (complete with a funny hat to ward off the sunlight)?
I looked down at my hands and thought. When was the last time they were really dirty? When was the last time I was short of breath or aching from activity that was not a function of a daily work out at the gym? In short when was the last time I did anything really productive?
Perhaps that is why I really needed to get away. To work, really work.
So I did.
I now have enough wood cut to ward off the winter cold (of course the fact that I am there rarely in the winter did not matter) for the next 3 years. I even finished cutting and stacking two cords of wood in one spot and decided to move it to another location that looked more ascetic.
My hands were now dirty. And I was now tired. And I felt good.
Something caused me to glance up as I dropped my ax. Above I saw a falcon playing with the wind. I thought the following:
the bird's wings silently unfold,
seeking drafts to lift it's spirits.
yet satisfied as it glides from sky to sky,
never caring where it goes,
needing only to find a path to anywhere.
Stupid maybe but it worked for me at the time. Now I am back in the city and the above discussion seems slightly sophomoric-but what the hell, it's just a journal posting, right?
The first morning began by my awakening to the sun's glancing blows off the 150 foot ponderosa pines that encircle my place. The sky is nearly always blue on the leeward side of the cascades and it was this morning as well. Out onto the deck I wandered with coffee cup in hand. Sitting down on the steps, I started to question why I would want to leave this property. Why slip on those funny shoes and why throw that golf bag onto my back like a modern day Robin Hood replacing quivers of arrows with strange steel shafted golf clubs (complete with a funny hat to ward off the sunlight)?
I looked down at my hands and thought. When was the last time they were really dirty? When was the last time I was short of breath or aching from activity that was not a function of a daily work out at the gym? In short when was the last time I did anything really productive?
Perhaps that is why I really needed to get away. To work, really work.
So I did.
I now have enough wood cut to ward off the winter cold (of course the fact that I am there rarely in the winter did not matter) for the next 3 years. I even finished cutting and stacking two cords of wood in one spot and decided to move it to another location that looked more ascetic.
My hands were now dirty. And I was now tired. And I felt good.
Something caused me to glance up as I dropped my ax. Above I saw a falcon playing with the wind. I thought the following:
the bird's wings silently unfold,
seeking drafts to lift it's spirits.
yet satisfied as it glides from sky to sky,
never caring where it goes,
needing only to find a path to anywhere.
Stupid maybe but it worked for me at the time. Now I am back in the city and the above discussion seems slightly sophomoric-but what the hell, it's just a journal posting, right?